ersatz
by Avallynh
Summary: "Her breath smells of his whiskey and he smells of something feral, something broken."   Damon/Rose, Damon/Elena twoshot, following on from the end of episode 2.09, Katerina.


**ersatz**

A _Vampire Diaries_ fanfic by Avallynh

**DISCLAIMER: **All characters and episode plotlines are (c) L.J. Smith and the CW respectively. I own nothing save the tangents born of my imagination because Damon and Rose intrigue me.

* * *

~I~

_I will if you will._

There's the soft _thunk_ of the crystal tumbler against the table, and there's that look in her ancient eyes; that slow, gentle parting of her lips in wordless invitation.

_Nothing to lose_, she says.

Nothing to gain, he knows.

He'll take it.

_God_, he'll take it.

They're inches apart with no memory of movement and her breath smells of his whiskey and he smells of something feral, something broken.

His gaze is searchingburningfascinated_terrified_, but she'll make him no promises and she'll tell him no lies. She knows what this is and he knows what this is and you can _trust_ me is all she ever said –

– until his lips are crashing down on hers and his tongue is ravishing her mouth and she's kissing back_, _tangling her fingers in his hair and crushing him against her and matching him thrust for _desperate_ thrust, choking on his longing and sick with her own, giving in to wanton caresses that aren't hers to claim; and he's disgusted that he can't shake that strange, misplaced need to _protect _even when he knows he won't break _her_, not at his worst – and he takes her tenderly, still, with kisses that won't draw blood and touches that won't leave bruises in their wake –

[_snap, crack, fall to dust_]

– and in that instant before they land on their knees and roll to standing, they only know that they don't know anymore.

* * *

~II~

They're faux-drowsing in the twice-shattered remnants of that postcoital lull, the fire behind them burning to embers unnoticed. His leg is resting on hers, still: a strange, strange weight.

'Thought he'd have more to say, that Slater of yours,' he says. 'I was...positing a scenario. With which he didn't run very far.'

She snorts. 'The witch, or the moonstone?'

'The witch comes around,' he says, head lolling against the armrest. 'E_ven_tually.'

'Lovely.'

They fall into another silence, companionable, broken only when the door opens and the wind wafts the mingled scents of Stefan and Elena over the threshold.

She expects him to move away and perhaps he expects the same of her, but they're both standing ground and she's watching him with cool curiosity and he's swilling the last sips of her scotch, his gaze fixed on the warped ebb and flow of the amber splash in the glass.

But there's that weight on her leg, grown stronger – ever, _ever_ so slightly stronger.

Elena doesn't linger.

She gives them a passing glance and her eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, at what must look like languid, effortless intimacy from where she's standing.

'Hello, 'Lena,' he slurs, tipping the glass in welcome.

She doesn't answer.

Stefan gives him a _significant look_, that portent of much-pointless-peregrinating-to-come, and takes Elena's trudging path up the stairs in her wake.

Then Damon shifts to face her. She's watching him with that same bemused look in her eye and he glares back till she almost smiles. She pushes him off and stands, letting the blanket pool in his lap and feeling his stare go right through her as she stretches.

'Fire's out,' she remarks, yawning.

'Stoke it,' he says, eyes boring into hers, no trace of that scotch-laced drawl in his voice now. 'It'll flare.'

* * *

~III~

Elena's been in the kitchen for the past fifteen minutes, threading agitated sighs between clinks of fine china against marble and the occasional open-and-shut of the refrigerator doors.

He'll wait.

Because she'll come, eventually, just like _that_: barefoot, jaw set and eyes averted, feigning deepest interest in her own white-knuckled grip on the handle of a chipped porcelain mug. Her stride wanders a little and she almost veers away towards the stairs, but then she musters resolve enough to come and perch on the edge of the sofa instead.

She sits staring into the flames: they're burning brighter, somehow, in the cold light of dawn, casting the aftermath of his drunken hours in flickering hues of gold.

'Stefan told you.'

He inclines his head in unnecessary acknowledgment. 'And I take it he told _you_.'

'Katherine has it,' she declares, and the phrase pretends to be a challenge and a plea and a halfhearted attempt at cold cynicism all at once.

It misses all three.

'She'll give it up.'

'Then what? You don't know what to do with it, do you?'

'Bonnie does.'

She exhales in a hiss, weary exasperation plain to see. 'I don't _want _to involve Bonnie. Or Stefan, or Jenna, or Jeremy, or Caroline, or Matt.'

He watches her fidget and shift. 'I'll take care of it.'

She looks up, wide-eyed, and then down again. _Or you _will stay unsaid.

'Stefan's up,' he tells her. 'Time to go.'

She stays, though, just a moment longer than she should. Then she braces herself with a breath and kneels beside him to push her coffee-cup, full to the brim, into his hands.

Then she's gone.

* * *

**A/N: **_I love reviews, I do. _


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